Drinking began again. The ladies gathered in a group, whispering and
laughing their relief at the turn affairs were taking--all save Dorothy,
who sat serenely beside me, picking the kernels from walnut-shells and
sipping a glass of port.
Sir John Johnson found a coal in the embers on the hearth, and, leaning
half over the table, began to draw on the table-cloth a rude map of
Tryon County.
"All know," he said, "that the province of New York is the key to the
rebel strength. While they hold West Point and Albany and Stanwix, they
hold Tryon County by the throat. Let them occupy Philadelphia. Who
cares? We can take it when we choose. Let them hold their dirty Boston;
let the rebel Washington sneak around the Jerseys. Who cares? There'll
be the finer hunting for us later. Gentlemen, as you know, the invasion
of New York is at hand--has already begun. And that's no secret from the
rebels, either; they may turn and twist and double here in New York
province, but they can't escape the trap, though they saw it long ago."
He raised his head and glanced at me.
"Here is a triangle," he said; "that triangle is New York province. Here
is Albany, the objective of our three armies, the gate of Tryon County,
the plague-spot we are to cleanse, and the military centre. Now mark!
Burgoyne moves through the lakes, south, reducing Ticonderoga and
Edward, routing the rats out of Saratoga, and approaches Albany--so.
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